


plans and their opposite

by ndnickerson



Category: Community
Genre: F/M, First Time, Future Fic, Romance, Sexual Content, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 18:30:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ndnickerson/pseuds/ndnickerson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for picfor1000. For once, Annie doesn't make any plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	plans and their opposite

Annie Edison has seen enough romcoms to know that, when she sees the message on Alex's cell phone, she's supposed to lose it. She has her legs tucked under her on the couch, popcorn perfectly popped, afghan over her lap, movie paused just after the opening titles, and she's waiting for him to come back from the kitchen with his beer, cute dark stubble on his cheeks and his shirttails hanging out over his jeans, when his cell phone vibrates. She scoops it up (and later she'll say it was without thinking, but her cheeks color a little and it's mostly a lie) and taps the retrieve button and sees a text from Steffie that reads "u still comin by l8r i'll have somethin sexy 4 u ;)".

But the problem is that she _is_ Annie Edison and she always thought that if this happened (it wasn't when; there's still some small part of her, the kind that will never stop loving her canopy bed or glitter stickers or pens that have puffs of feathers at the end) she would possess a quiet dignity and deliver a devastating put-down that would leave the guy in question running, full of protest and apology, after her, at which point she would slip her sunglasses on and drive away, possibly casting one cool glance in her rearview.

Instead she cries and gets tangled up in the afghan and her tears streak mascara all down her face, and for a few desperate minutes she actually believes his protest that it was a mistake. And then there's another message that's worse than the first and Alex gets this creepy, douchey calm about him. She throws his phone (she manages to resist the urge to fling it at the floor, but it bounces off the couch and rebounds with a crack against the edge of the coffee table and Alex hisses "you _bitch_ ") and stammers out, "I hope you two are very _fucking happy_ together," and, shocked at her own voice, slams the door behind her.

She spends the weekend eating ice cream straight out of cartons and alternately sobbing and half-dialing Alex's number. She skips her Monday morning classes because she met him there and she can't see him like this, and when Shirley unlocks her bakery for the lunch customers, Annie is the first one in.

"What did you do? When you found out about your husband and— you know."

Shirley gently, precisely places a brownie in the middle of the sheet of cling wrap and deftly folds it over. "I forgave him," she says, in that bright, chirpy tone that usually mean she's lying. "Well, after years and prayer and apology. But until that happened, I was lucky enough to find our study group."

But they haven't been a group in months, really. After Greendale Annie headed to university and Shirley opened her bakery and Britta went on some bizarre Habitat for Humanity tour of America, and Abed went to film school and Troy learned about special effects to help him and Pierce opened a Mexican branch of Hawthorne Wipes and figured out that the Spanish they learned from Senor Chang wouldn't fool a newborn.

And Jeff, well, Jeff is back in his land of power lunches and expensive suits, and Annie doesn't really get why that makes her feel so disappointed in him.

"Maybe a change of scenery would do you some good, too," Shirley says, lifting a piping bag to begin on a tray of unadulterated cupcakes.

\--

Annie learned a lot of things in NA. She learned to think things through and plan and be careful.

So she takes out a map and squeezes her eyes _tight_ and one rigid index finger arcs down until it strikes the paper.

 _Italy_.

She knows exactly two words of Italian. Italy has nothing to do with her planned career track. The plane ticket is more money than she's ever had in her bank account at one time.

But it's something to keep her mind off Alex, and so she digs through websites looking for scholarships and grants and fellowships, doing virtual tours of campuses in Rome and Milan and Naples, until it seems like she was _meant_ to go there, to see the Sistine ceiling, to stroll through the Vatican, to eat a gelato on the steps of Trevi Fountain, to touch the Colosseum, to walk through Keats's rooms near the Spanish Steps, to gape at the Pantheon.

And so she does.

\--

This is what happens when one particularly lucky lawyer finds a high-tier tax shelter for a multimillionaire client: an all-expenses-paid weeklong vacation in a Tuscan villa. Jeff's BlackBerry works and he has wifi, so he spends a few hours a morning answering emails while lounging in his underwear on the patio. His rented BMW is languishing in the driveway, and once he's answered every message, flipped through every channel and shaken his head in disbelief at Italian MTV, he slides into a pair of meticulously predistressed jeans and a t-shirt and sets the GPS for Rome.

It's the kind of day he almost never sees in Colorado, when the sunlight bathes everything in gold, in thick lazy warmth. The pavement radiates heat and the girls are in short fluttering skirts, their sunglasses pushed up on their hair, large bags tucked under their arms, white teeth in tanned faces. Jeff pushes his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose and smiles, at the soothing tripping murmur of their speech, the crush of the tourists and the casual amble of the natives. He orders a coffee using pidgin and sign language and hands over a euro before heading back out to the street.

And there's a girl standing at a corner, with a thick dark wing of hair over one shoulder, stark against her yellow cardigan. She's peering at a map and habit more than actual knowledge nudges him to amble over, sizing her up on his way. Lean slender calves and sensible heels, one hand twisting in the hem of her skirt.

He shakes off that strange momentary feeling and pulls up even with her, opens his mouth, and—

It was going to be smooth, really it was, but instead his mouth drops open and he says, "Annie?"

"Jeff?" She turns those big blue Disney-princess eyes to his, the corners of her mouth curving up. "I can't believe it! I can't believe you're here!"

"Same here!" He spreads his arms wide and she rushes into them, headlong. "In Rome! I always thought that if you left Greendale you'd just evaporate."

She leans back and pins him with a raised eyebrow. "Been a long time. And you said you'd keep in touch."

He shrugs. "I think I smirked in a condescending manner. So what brings you to Rome?"

She grins. "Rome does!" She twirls like the naive exuberant heroine in a 50s movie. "It's _amazing_. And I'm headed home in a week and a half. I was just thinking how I'd love to go see the—"

She keeps talking—Annie is _good_ at talking—and he lets it ride just for the novelty of hearing her babble again after so long. She's like an audible newsletter, describing Abed's latest film, the mixtape (it's not a mixtape anymore but he can't think of them as anything else) she made for Britta, Shirley's bakery. She flips a coin into Trevi Fountain and Jeff is watching sidelong for that little glance she's going to give him, but she doesn't.

"And what made you veer off that straight and narrow path to a wholesome life of administration?" Jeff touches the coins in his own pocket but doesn't toss one into the burbling water.

"I'm still—" She glances over at him, then sighs. "Ugh. There was this guy, Alex."

Jeff chokes on nothing. "Not Starburns?"

"No. Ugh. Not Starburns." She shakes her head and finds an empty place to lean against the rail. "I _loved_ him. I mean, like, _really_ loved him, and he was seeing this other girl..." She trails off, not looking at him, and for maybe the first time ever, the first time he can remember, she's entirely still, her lashes low. Then she gives herself a little shake and puts her shoulders back and smiles. "Oh well."

Jeff lets the silence stretch for a moment longer. "Well, if there's a good place to forget."

He does the mental math over dinner. She's twenty-three now and that gap between their ages is still the same but it grows narrow, the further she is from ripe and tragic eighteen. She doesn't choke or cringe on the wine even though she only has one glass, and he winks a little at a woman in a short black dress who keeps casting low-lidded glances at him from the bar, but when they leave Annie slides easily into the passenger seat of his car.

It's not like he said _Annie do you want to spend the night at my place_. It's just him remembering how Greendale feels like a dream now, the paintball game, the chicken fingers, the KFC spaceship, the werewolves, the baby Abed delivered in the elevator and Pierce in the Cookie Crisp outfit and Britta slapping Duncan. He watches Annie flip her hair behind her and flash him a grin as she disappears into her dorm. He remembers that shocked look, that slight pout, after the transfer dance, after he let his hand fall out of her hair, after he straightened his spine and looked down at her, far, far too soft and sweet for him. Now a little of that naivete is gone and he thinks that if he kissed her now she'd know how to kiss back.

Her hand is bladed and undulating through the air as he drives back to the villa. They're so far out that the stars are actual pinpricks on black, not swimming in the orange poison of light pollution. She is suitably impressed by the villa that is so temporarily his, babbling, blushing a little, that one glass of nursed wine warming in her hand.

"To the future," he says, clicking his glass against hers in a toast.

"To not losing track of each other again," she says, and takes a sip.

She vanishes into one of the bathrooms (warm tile and claw-footed tub that shouldn't work together but somehow does) and Jeff walks out onto the patio, barefoot, a pool of wine in the bowl of his glass. He is not thinking about what happens next, because Annie will fill it, fill it with that lilting, alternately wheedling and sweet voice, fill it with the veiled longing of her gaze, fill it with whatever she wants.

He is not thinking about those slender calves or wondering exactly what sound would come out of her mouth if he brushed his fingertips along the tender curve of her inner thigh or how tight she could possibly be under that little sundress.

Then the door slides open and she puts one bare foot on the stone of the patio and that flutter of silk that skims the tops of her thighs isn't a cotton sundress, it's red, red silk trimmed in black lace that makes her blue eyes look even larger in her face. She points her toe behind one ankle and her hand rests on the door's latch and she doesn't say anything for a long moment, just watches him look at her, waits for his gaze to meet hers again.

"You know what the saddest thing in the world is?"

Jeff swallows against a dry throat. "I have a few good candidates."

"Something you buy to wear for someone who will never get to see it." She does this little curtsy with one knee bent, just a little bob, finger and thumb pinching the hem of her skirt, like a little girl, but then her gaze rises again and there's nothing little-girl about that. "Makes me think about that every time I see it in my drawer. Maybe we can make another memory for it."

The old Annie would break and spoil it, would ruin the spell with a giggle, a wide eager grin. The old Annie would kill him with her sweetness.

This Annie takes another step, her gaze steady on his, and he senses, the way he always can, that she's naked under that slip of a gown.

"I vote several."

\--

She tastes like wine. Of course she does. Her tongue is hot and slick with it and he thinks of some asshole named Alex with his fists in her hair and his knee between her legs and breaks it off, and she sits on the back of the couch, watching him as he pours a tumbler of scotch, good scotch, the kind that takes two drops of water. She shakes her head when he offers her one and touches her index finger to her lips, swollen and flushed from his kiss.

He doesn't have to get drunk to do this, doesn't want to get drunk to do this (with Britta it was all adrenaline and the way everyone just kept saying it was going to happen). He takes a long sip and puts it down, and slides fingers slick with wet condensation up her outer thigh, and she jumps, shifting.

"There's a skylight in the bedroom."

She nods as his fingers inch up, and she tangles her fingers in his belt loops and jerks his hips a little, closer to her, bending one leg, the side of her knee bumping against his.

She pulls his shirt over his head while they're still weaving, slowly navigating through the living room. He pops the button of his jeans, pushes the zipper down one-handed, his other hand cupping her jaw, sliding through the warm silk of her hair. They twirl around each other and he backs her against the doorframe, and then her nails are raking gently down his side as she kisses him back just as hard, and after he manages to step out of his jeans, the scotch hot under his skin, he grabs her ass and pulls her tight up against him, and her breath hitches a little and she nips at his lower lip.

Then she pulls back a little. "Condoms—in my purse—"

Of course Annie has condoms. He catches himself wondering if she has lube and leans down to scoop his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans before she laces her fingers into his. He pulls the condom out and tosses it back onto the floor without looking, and as they cross the threshold into the bedroom, his mouth against the side of her neck and her breasts pressed tight against his chest, he catches the hem of her nightie and draws it up until it's bunched between them. They part and he peels it off her and her skin is so pale it glows in the moonlight. She tightens a little, and if she—

But she doesn't, she doesn't cross her arms over her breasts, doesn't half-cross her legs, and he drags his gaze up from her feet. Dark curls between her creamy thighs, high but average breasts tipped in brown-rose nipples, that swollen pout of her thoroughly kissed lips. Instead she's gazing back at him, just as boldly, and she gives his boxer-briefs a pointed glance. Then she steps in so close that he can feel the heat radiating off her, and slips her fingertips into the elastic of his underwear, peeling them off him. He makes a little hissing sound when his cock is finally free and steps toward her, the condom still in its foil wrapper between his scissored fingers and the bed a foot away and both of them still.

His touch leaves a trail of gooseflesh on her skin and he turns so that the backs of his knees hit the mattress, and when he draws her tight to him, his cock pressed against her belly, she doesn't flinch back. He skims his fingertips down her back as she slides her arms around his shoulders, pressing her breasts to his chest, and he sits down, pulling her so that her knees are on either side of his hips and she's straddling him, his feet still on the floor. She tilts her head, her hair brushing his shoulders, as she kisses him, slow, arching with a soft moan when he cups her breasts, his thumbs stroking the hard tips of her nipples. She shifts over him, her fingertips drifting over his shoulder blades, and he's very lightly, very slowly drawing his fingers up from her knees to her inner thighs when she puts her index finger at the base of his cock and drags it slowly up his shaft.

He groans something meaningless and falls back, under her, drawing spirals over her inner thighs as she curves her fingers around the base of his cock, links her index finger and thumb to circle him and strokes up his length, once.

Jeff gasps in a breath. "What do you want to do?"

"Everything," she says softly, closing her eyes, her lips parting as he cups her breast again. "I want to do everything."

He feels the ache intensify, to levels he hasn't even had to imagine in years, the burning ache below his navel as she licks her thumb and brushes it gently over the tip of his cock, then brings it back to her mouth and licks it again, her gaze on his. Her breasts are full as she leans over him, on her elbows, and he suckles one and she slides her knees apart by degrees. He hooks his thumbs between her inner lips and parts her and she grinds down and then her wet inner flesh (oh, oh fuck is she wet), the slick folds stroke his shaft as she rocks her hips and he finds her clit, reminding himself as she flushes and gasps that the condom is somewhere in the bed with him, but definitely not on his cock.

He rolls her nipples, gently kneads her breasts, and then she rubs her clit against the tip of his cock and a full body shiver ripples down her spine, and before he knows it she's reaching down to angle his cock and his hips are already rocking in anticipation, and there was a time when Annie would have unwrapped the condom and been transfixed by her ignorance, but when he hands her the wrapper she rips it open and rolls it onto his cock with a deft flick of her wrist, and he props himself up on his elbows, his skin thrumming as she holds his cock in place and then, God.

She's blessedly slick, hot and tight, and she takes him in a few shallow thrusts. When his full length is inside her, in the dark he feels her lips brush his and sucks her lower lip into his mouth, groaning as he pushes up and she rocks down and, fuck, oh fuck. He grabs her ass and their teeth scrape and then she shifts her angle and he strains against her.

"Ann, Annie—"

She kisses him, hard, and then he flips her onto her back and tries not to see her under him, tries to imagine something else, something other than her hair spread on the comforter and her parted lips and the way her brows draw together when he thrusts inside her. His balls are tight with need. He arches over her, hooking his thumb between her lips and digging against her clit, and she bucks, writhing, under him, her breath coming out in rising gasps. He bites her earlobe and her breath comes in harsh pants against the point of his jaw, her fingertips gliding down his sides, digging into the small of his back.

"Now, Jeff, now, _now_ ," she begs, her heels drawing back toward her, her thighs opening wider, but he waits, just a moment longer, until her hips start that urgent rock under him, and then he pulls back and thrusts savagely, into the slick glide of her, and she arches, crying out when he comes.

\--

When Jeff Winger gets off the plane in Denver, the temperature is a good twenty degrees colder. He goes straight back to work, fills his boss in on the cases he's been handling while he was away, and Allen play-jabs him in the ribs and asks a little too eagerly about whatever he managed to pick up in Italy, and still Jeff manages to not think about it, about her mouth on his cock, about the way her inner flesh tightened against his tongue while he was eating her out, about the deft touch of her fingers and how her laugh, her genuine laugh, didn't make his stomach tighten in the sudden crush of guilt. It was Italy, it was that damaged calm in her eyes and the way her hips circled when he was inside her. He had always been terrified of the prospect of being her first, of corrupting her, of taking her innocence when she wouldn't even have known what she was offering.

And it was Greendale, and his reluctance to damage what he grudgingly admitted, only now, was one of the best relationships of his life, with that demented ragtag Spanish study group. He loves working for Ted, loves the cadence of lying and charming and wriggling his way through the eternal loophole, but now there's a part of him that actually misses Shirley's mothering and Pierce's ignorance and Troy's delight, Abed's observations and Britta's bleeding heart and Annie's optimism.

And Annie the way he'd never let himself think about her before, Annie with that knowing smirk to her lips and that quirk in her eyebrow as she pumped his cock in a deft fist.

He was her rebound. He should be okay with that. He is okay with that. He is.

He and Allen and Jim go to the bar that used to be L Street that Friday night, after work, and when the scotch touches his lips he remembers the taste of her mingled with it on his tongue and his stomach flips a little. It would be wrong to call her, see if she's back in town, see if she wants to maybe come over, even after another four rounds, when Allen's making more and more offensive comments about their waitress's ass and Jeff kind of wants to say just once that he knows what Allen did to him and he wants nothing quite as much as he wants to punch Allen in his smug face.

"Hey-oh," Jim says, before tipping back his longneck. He nods at the door. "Start your engines, gentlemen."

Jeff tosses back the rest of his scotch, waves them off. "Speak for yourself."

She's in a clinging teal number that brings out her eyes, that emphasizes the firm curve of her ass, the deep v of her cleavage. She has a tiny black purse that he hopes holds half a dozen condoms, and her hair's done in elegant curls he's already planning to crush in his fingers. Especially when she gazes at him from under her lowered lashes, her teeth flashing in a quick grin.

"Buy you a drink?"

Annie puts her hand on his upper arm, shooting a dazzling smile up at him. "Please."

Maybe he wasn't a rebound after all.


End file.
